


A Reason to be Glad

by JacquelineHyde



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin
Genre: F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-10-14
Updated: 2013-10-14
Packaged: 2017-12-29 09:28:04
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,735
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1003762
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/JacquelineHyde/pseuds/JacquelineHyde
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Increasingly as of late, he has thought that he would like to see her glad because of him, not in spite of him. He has hope that it will happen in time, that the things that lie between them will one day cease to matter so, and they will give one another a reason to be glad.</p>
            </blockquote>





	A Reason to be Glad

**Author's Note:**

> For the ASOIAF kinkmeme prompt: the first time they share a bed without having sex first.

Try as he might, Ned cannot give name to the odd restlessness that has driven him from his bedchamber when he ought, by all accounts, to be asleep.  
  
It is late, evening has turned to night, sleep descended upon the household; yet it seems determined to elude him tonight, weary as he is. It is strange, he often thinks, that making far-reaching decisions and issuing orders of his own can leave him more drained and exhausted than carrying out even the most arduous of another man's orders.  
  
He has already been to look in on the boys, brushed vibrant red curls from one tiny forehead and dark brown so like his own from another, and is surprised to find himself next at Catelyn's door.  
  
Perhaps it should not be such a surprise; she has been much on his mind as of late, this girl who was not meant for him. Less often than he used to, but still more often than he knows is fair when she has been the very picture of a devoted wife, he wonders if her thoughts dwell still on Brandon.  
  
Her smile is beautiful, and she gives it freely; when he dreams of her (and wouldn't Robert bellow with laughter over  _that_ ), she is smiling at him as she did the night she announced, flushed and ecstatic, that he is to be a father again.  
  
Her laugh, just as beautiful, is a rarer thing by far, and he wonders if it would be so with his brother's wild charm and irreverent sense of humour and easy affection to warm her, if she would bear the cold with joy in place of the quiet, graceful endurance that he has come to admire, even as it saddens him.  
  
If she wishes still for his brother, she gives no indication (no more than those he rules as best he can, and yet he always hears unspoken accusations when his decisions bring anger or disappointment,  _your brother would have_ , or  _your brother would not have_ ), and in the end, it changes nothing, not when her life is lived to so wholly encapsulate her house words. Such strict adherence to  _Family, Duty, Honor_  leaves scant room for pining over a lost love to the detriment of her very much alive husband and child. If her thoughts do lie yet with Brandon, he doubts very much that it is with sorrow or resentment towards her southron gods for the life she has been given, but with fond remembrance of someone dear to her, to both of them.   
  
Try as he might, though, he cannot help but wonder.  
  
He does not think her existence here is wholly empty of joy, by any means; he has seen that beautiful smile break over her face when she is with their son, heard that beautiful laugh mingle with Robb's bright, childish giggle.  
  
Still, increasingly of late, he has thought that he would like to see her glad because of him, not in spite of him. He has hope that it will happen in time, that the things that lie between them will one day cease to matter so, and they will give one another a reason to be glad.  
  
Even if, just now, such a thing seems entirely out of reach.  
  
He sought her out one evening several days ago, only to find her chambers empty, inquiry as to her whereabouts revealing that she was sitting up with Robb through the illness that has kept both his boys feverish and miserable for nearly a week. He had gone immediately to her, a gentle reminder on his lips that both she and the babe growing within her required rest that she would certainly not find if she insisted upon spending her nights walking the floor with a sniffling, coughing little boy, that no one doubted her dedication, but she might ask for help on occasion.  
  
The lovely sight before him had brought him to an abrupt halt in the doorway, admonishment forgotten. His wife sat curled up in the chair in the corner, his son curled up in her lap, her hair falling in loose waves about her shoulders to mingle with fine, silky curls of the same shade, the blissful contentment on Robb's face mirrored on Catelyn's.  
  
“I know it is unnecessary,” she admitted in a hushed voice, careful not to wake the boy cuddled against her. “But it is a comfort for a child to have his mother near when he is ill.”  
  
Objections far from his mind, Ned merely nodded, certain that the smile he could not hold back verged on ridiculous.  
  
Then his eyes had moved to the other small bed, across the room, and he felt his smile falter, chased away by sorrow for the child to whom, through a cruel chance of fate, through his own lies and secrets, this comfort will be ever lost.  
  
She had followed his gaze, and the joy had fled her face instantly as well, the emotionless mask seething at the edges with a very different kind of sorrow the same expression she has worn each time she is confronted with Jon.  
  
His wife is not so much a stranger to him now as she once was, and he recalls vividly enough her expression of heartbreaking shock the first time he breathed her name when they lay together; he was well able to guess at the reason that she looked pointedly away, blinking more frequently than usual.   
  
In that moment, it had seemed unthinkable to allow her to believe his sadness to be longing for a lost love, for a life free of her and Robb, so he told her the truth of his thoughts, as much as he was able.  
  
“Do you think that you might do the same for Jon, my lady?”  
  
That hint of something sick and lost and unbearably lonely had faded from her eyes, but still no fondness or understanding had filled their bright blue as she looked carefully away, coolly indifferent.  
  
“I am not the boy's mother; I would be of no particular comfort to him.” She had met his eyes then. “Particularly with his  _father_  right here and perfectly capable.”  
  
He had been angry then, to have his clumsy attempt at reassurance thrown back in his face in a way that will not hurt only him, and with a dark scowl in her direction, stalked across the boys' room to gather Jon into his arms. As though sensing his upset, Jon had begun to whimper unhappily, increasing in volume and agitation, and Robb had responded in kind.   
  
Ned is glad now that he did not frighten her, that when he cast another dark look in her direction as he attempted to calm one fussing child and she another, she returned it with the same cool indifference, and just a hint of a challenge. At the time, he would have been quite happy to see her abashed and afraid, before he recalled how it had hurt each time she flinched away from his touch after the night he forbade her to ask him about Jon's mother, the one time he has seen her truly too frightened to hide it.   
  
Saying nothing, he took Jon to sleep the rest of the night in his chambers, and thought that perhaps she might do the same with Robb and that way find a few hours of rest herself, but found that he hardly cared to suggest it.  
  
He is regretting that now; the boys are much recovered, but Catelyn has seemed increasingly pale and exhausted each time he has seen her in these few days past. He had thought to stay an hour with her and Robb this afternoon, ensure her well-being.  
  
Instead, he found Robb still with Old Nan and Jon, his boys making an amount of noise and commotion together that served as a true testament to the progress of their recovery, and when he asked after his wife, received a stern reply:  _She is resting, poor thing could barely keep upright, leave her be._  
  
When she had not come to join the household for the evening meal either, his concern had only grown.  
  
Catelyn is by no definition timid, nor careless, and if she fears anything seriously wrong, she has already taken it to Maester Luwin; if there is something to be truly worried over, he will be made aware. He does not know if she will thank him for his unsolicited concern, or if she will interpret it as questioning her ability to take care of herself.  
  
But the more he thinks on it, the more he thinks that he would rather have her indignant at his over-cautiousness, than miserable and unwell, with no word of comfort from her husband.  
  
He knocks hesitantly, and when there is no immediate answer, pushes the door open and slips into the room, that he might not wake her if he finds her already asleep.  
  
She is not asleep, but clearly had not thought to see him tonight, and cannot quite hide her surprise.  
  
“My lord,” she greets pleasantly enough, though the corners of her mouth tighten a little as she reaches for the bottom of her sleep shift and starts to pull it up over her head.  
  
Ned stops her with a light touch at her wrist.  
  
“We—we don't have to—I did not come tonight for that.”  
  
She does a slightly better job of hiding her relief as she lets the shift fall back into place, though not the hint of unease that follows it.  
  
“Is all well, Ned?”  
  
“Ah, yes. I only wished to tell you that I have been to look in on Robb, and he seems much improved. He has resumed his exploration of the world by dividing it into what will and will not fit in his mouth.”  
  
Her wariness melts into an expression of deep relief, although she still makes no move to sit.  
  
“I am glad.”  
  
“And you, Catelyn?” he manages after an awkward silence, acutely aware that she is watching him curiously. “Are you well? You did not join us for the meal this evening, and I was...worried.”  
  
Her eyes soften, and the notion that his concern might offend her seems very silly now.  
  
“I was rather tired, that is all. When I went to take Robb from Nan this afternoon, I was ordered to bed myself--”  
  
At this, he huffs a laugh, quite familiar with Old Nan's seeming insistence upon viewing everyone around her as an unruly child requiring firm guidance, and more than the occasional scolding.  
  
“--and I slept for longer than I had intended.”  
  
“It is little wonder. You have spent nearly every night this week awake more often than not.”  
  
She looks at him imploringly, one hand coming to rest on the slight roundness of her belly.  
  
“I am sorry if you feel that I have endangered the babe, my lord, but Robb has never been so ill before, and I was afraid for him.”  
  
He frowns at her distress, and brushes her cheek gently.   
  
“I did not mean to accuse you of endangering either of our children. It is you I worry for.” He is careful to punctuate his next words with a smile, lest she take them for admonishment again. “I am sure the babe rested well while his mother insisted upon walking the floor each night, carrying a boy who grows larger and heavier by the day.”   
  
Catelyn concedes the point with a tiny grimace, rubbing absently at her shoulder, and he knows he ought to heed Old Nan's words and leave her to her rest.   
  
But if he cannot make her laugh as his brother might, as a man quicker to jest and freer of spirit might, he can try to soothe her physical hurts, show her through a comforting touch that she is dear to him, and has not become less so because he was angry with her.  
  
And so, he finds himself moving around behind her and pushing her long, heavy braid over one shoulder, tamping down the urge to unbind it and bury his hands in her hair. Sternly, he reminds himself that he is here to ensure her comfort, not keep her from rest for his own enjoyment.  
  
He presses a kiss to the back of her neck, smiling against the soft skin at the shiver that runs through her. As he pulls away, his hands find her shoulders and knead gently. She twists to look up at him with a small frown of puzzlement.  
  
“Would you like me to stop?”  
  
“No, please,” she is quick to reply, and he feels a small flare of satisfaction as she arches into his hands with a long sigh. “It feels wonderful. Only, it is strange, that the Lord of Winterfell should stir himself in the middle of the night for such a task.”  
  
“You cannot sleep if you are in pain. And I would have you sleep.”  
  
As he murmurs this close to her ear, his thumb presses firmly at the edge of her shoulder blade, and she leans back into him with a long sigh that he thinks may have contained an agreement.  
  
He likes her this way, he thinks as her head drops forward, and her sigh becomes a hum of contentment.  
  
They have been wed three years now, made a child together, with another soon to come; in that time, he has become quite familiar with the sight of her lost to pleasure beneath his touch, with losing himself to pleasure beneath hers. But this is something different.  
  
Beautiful a sight as she makes, naked beneath him, hair a crimson ripple fanning out around her on the pillow, eyes shut tightly, lovely mouth open with those sounds that shoot straight through him and leave him with the equal desires to have her right away, and to watch her come completely apart first, he cannot help the sneaking suspicion that her response is too enthusiastic, and wonders if she seeks to bolster his opinion of his own prowess in the furs.  
  
Ned does not think that she finds it entirely devoid of enjoyment. There is, after all, only so much that can be feigned. But he thinks she exaggerates her enjoyment, though he cannot imagine the purpose, unless it is to ensure that he visits her often, and he wonders if she will stop now that she is carrying another child.  
  
He can sense no such artifice in her response to his touch tonight; it is the most genuine he has seen from her, and he finds that he would like to see more of it.  
  
“Shall we sit?”   
  
“Hmm?” The soft noise matches her drowsy, contented expression, and he kisses the top of her head and guides her to the bed.  
  
Once they are settled, his hands find her shoulders again, run up and down the length of her back, her skin cool through the thin material of her shift. He can hear her breathing slow and deepen, at one point feels her jolt back to alertness, but does not realize that she is asleep until she begins to slump forward, away from him, and makes no move to catch herself.  
  
Quickly, he catches her with an arm around her front, maneuvers her under the quilts and furs, and breathes a sigh of relief when she does not wake.   
  
Resting one hand briefly at her cheek, he turns to go, and stops as the empty space next to her catches his eye. She is not the only one who has slept poorly this week, and he knows from experience that her bed is very comfortable, the warm puff of her breath at his shoulder when she curls around him in the night very soothing.  
  
Surely, it can harm nothing if he rests a moment before returning to his own chambers.  
  
And if he is surprised to find the pale light of early morning streaming through the window when next he opens his eyes, drenched in sweat because at some point during the night Catelyn wrapped herself tightly around him and brought seemingly every blanket in the castle with her, it is still difficult to consider any harm done.  
  
And so, rather than seek out the harm, Ned merely drops a light kiss his at wife's hair, and lets himself drift back to sleep.


End file.
